


Young, Young, Young (And A Menace) (Shane Dawson)

by RockWithItWriting



Category: Shane Dawson - Fandom, Shane Yaw - Fandom, Youtube RPF, Youtuber RPF, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Death, Depression, Fighting, Foster Care, Loss, Mention of Death, Orphan!Reader, Other, cancer mention, mention of a car crash, mentions of a house-fire, self deprication, shitty fister system is mentioned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-05-07 05:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14664705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockWithItWriting/pseuds/RockWithItWriting
Summary: requested by anonymous: Owl(idk it says to call you that) Can I get a Shane Dawson request where he adopts a teenage daughter trying to prove to ryland that he’s a good dad and it’s harder than he thinks but he loves her a lot and refuses to send her backheyyo, i’m not dead. and I changed up this request a little bit??? and it got sad, yikes, sorry. pls pay attention to warnings!!  plus I love that u called me owl!!!! -eliword count: 4.2kwarnings: foster care, orphan!reader, mentions of a house-fire, shitty fister system is mentioned, angst, self deprication, death, mention of death, cancer mention,  mention of a car crash, loss, depression, fighting





	1. Young Young Young (And A Menace)

The sucker was sickly sweet in your mouth as your case worker prattled on about how well this next placement would be for you. “He’s a sweet guy, really, I’ve spoken to him loads!” Her pristine, posh English accent was indicative of how naive she was - you’d been in the system sixteen years and Alicia had been working for sixteen months.

Not yet long enough to be disillusioned.

“He’s famous, too, which proves a problem, but he’s got a stable income so I’m not too worried about things like food!” You rolled your eyes, pulling the sucker from your mouth with a pop! before turning to Alicia.

“He’s also in California. Which is, you know, radically different than Washington.” Alicia gave you a sideways glance, disapproving of your sourness and disinterest toward life, and living in general. “You won’t be my case worker anymore.”

“Psh, of course I will!” Alicia reached over to squeeze at your bicep before brining her drink to her mouth, “It’ll be long distance, and I’ll be partnering with another caseworker that’s closer, here in LA, but it’ll be worth it.” You snuffed out a laugh, watching the houses get larger, and more granoise as you drove, wondering just who your new foster parent was.

Rumor was, he even turned down the money the government was offering him. You weren’t sure if that was possible, or if Alicia was telling that to make you more comfortable with heading out of state, with your two suitcases of clothing and various knick-knacks, to yet another foster family. It didn’t work, at least on a physical level. It did make you feel somewhat better that you’d be going to a house, where hopefully, you weren’t starved because of lack of money, or lack of caring.

“Oooh!” Alicia shook you out of your reverie as she pulled down a long, winding driveway, “What a beautiful home!” And it was. The driveway was long and two, sleek, new looking cars sat side by side. You could see a gate, and the side of a glimmering pool, and you perked up. A pool, you could get with a pool. There was even a pool house!

“It’s big.” Your mouth was full of the sucker and the sucker flavored saliva, making your breath as full of the sickly bubblegum scent as your mouth. You pulled it from your mouth, tossing it in the small, cutesy trash can Alicia kept in her backseat. She passed you a pack of gum and soon the taste and smell of spearmint replaced the childish sweets. “How many people live here?”

Alicia waited to answer you until you were ‘round her side, grabbing the handles of your suitcases before she answered you, adjusting her suit-skirt and pulling her sunglasses over her eyes. She looked professional, something you were always grateful for. People always seemed to be more scared of hurting you, or mistreating you, when your caseworker looked professional. Alicia especially, since she had that accent that made men, women, everything in between, swoon deep in their stomach. She pulled her suitcase from the car and smiled at you, all red lips and excitement.

“Come on!” She smiled, squeezing your shoulder, “Your new foster family is waiting.” You snorted, keeping close to Alicia’s side, if not a few inches behind her. Training, training.Of course, as Alicia was new - new to America, new to working for social services, new to your particular case - she was too eager. Alicia couldn’t know that you’d been mistreated, couldn’t know how messed up the foster system was, couldn’t know, couldn’t know, wouldn’t know. Alicia couldn’t know a lot, but you did.

Of course you knew.

You had to know.

Every foster parent assumed you knew.

You hoped this next house would be different.

Alicia raised a hand, with red claes that matched her lips, and knocked thrice loudly. You only had to shake in your boots for a few seconds because it was obvious that the head of house was waiting behind the door, wringing their hands, waiting a few seconds so they didn’t seem so eager.

The door opened, Alicia speaking and shaking the man’s hand.

Owlishly, you blinked.

Your face heated up.

You were pretty sure you had squalled like an eagle as you tracked the man’s movement as he swung an arm out, inviting the both of you into his home. It had been years, but you recognized him - even if he did look like a whole new person.

It was Shane Dawson except… Well, he looked happy. He had a scruffy beard, nervousness in his limbs, and a bright smile on his face. You had never seen him like this when you snuck out of your room to the family room, hogging the computer late at night. He always looked sad then, doing voices, wearing makeup, doing blackface. But he looked changed.

You sure hoped he had, because you weren’t sure that could living in a house with that Shane Dawson, the Shane of years past. He was crazy, wild, over the top, and you certainly couldn’t take anymore of that in your life.

You were at an age where, in two years, you’d be phased out of foster care and thrust into the real world, needing a job, needing a place to live, needing a few courses on how to live.

And you hoped that Shane, the new Shane standing in front of you, wouldn’t ruin that for you.

Of course, in the time that you were thinking and mulling over what your life was about to become, Shane had stopped addressing Alicia and started talking to you, but you blinked, flushing from your collar bones to your eyebrows.

“Uh, shit, I, uh,” You stuttered as Shane giggled nervously, Alice coming to your rescue with a light arm around you.

“Sorry about this one,” Her voice was smooth and it rolled over the anxiety in the room, “Too many sweets.” You nodded, bending to set down your suitcases. Shane took a step toward you, a shaking hand held out to you.

“I’m Shane. I’m going to be your new foster host. I have a live-in boyfriend, two cats, and a dog. Hopefully you’re fond of those things.” Man, you really had to catch up on his life - now, your life.

You gave Shane your name, slipping your hand into his, “This is my first foster family of 2018, congrats. First one of the year sets the tone.” Shane flinched and you did your best to rectify your flub, “That’s not a bad thing, I swear.”

And Alicia squeezed your shoulder, grinning, because she knew that you were good at things like that: sensing discomfort, no matter how minor, and rectifying it. “Well, Shane and I decided that we’d order dinner in, and I’d stay until I’d absolutely have to leave!” You blanched, finally ending your staring at Shane, to look horrified at Alicia.

“You just offered to stop into the office here in LA like, ten minutes ago, to do an emergency consultation.” Alicia gave your shoulders a squeeze before she took a few minutes to finish her protocol, telling you guys that the social workers would be in weekly, then bi-monthly, then monthly, or whatever, until they decided that they wouldn’t check in anymore.

And then Alicia was gone, and you were standing between your suitcases, shaking and quaking and everything else-ing, and Shane was wringing his hands in front of you. Both of you were avoiding eye contact but then the door behind Shane opened and a white-yellow blur barreled toward you, leaping through the air.

In a moment, three things happened. Shane’s boyfriend yelled his name, Shane yelled the dogs name, and you were on the ground, underneath said dog. It didn’t bother you, but you had bounced your head off of the wood floor, and the dog’s tongue was in your mouth before you braced your forearm against it’s throat. It kept the dog at bay, who was wiggling on top of you, trying to get close to you and lick you and love you. The dog was pulled off - seemingly named Uno - and Shane’s boyfriend helped you up. You blinked at him again - that seemed to be all you were doing - and tried to process words to thank him. He spoke, first.

“I’m Ryland, Shane’s boyfriend. I’m sorry about Uno, he gets excited when he sees new people.” You nodded, noticing that the man, Ryland, still had an arm around your bicep and, frankly, it was making you uncomfortable. He was also very close, closer than you liked your foster hosts to stand when you were new and green in their home. You took a step back, smiling apologetically as you shook yourself loose from his grip. “Oh,” Your hosts were always startled when you rejected their touch for the first time, but they got used to it, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” You conceded, “It was just a long drive. I came from Washington.”

Shane, just entering the room sans dog, smiled at you and said something about visiting Washington state as a kid, “That is a long drive - the longest you’ve been through?”

You nodded as Ryland scooted away from you, around the edge of the room, muttering something about taking a shower after his jog, “It’s my first time relocating out of state. I got lucky - as lucky as I could be - with that.” After that the conversation stagnated and Shane showed you to your room. It was all beige, the walls, the furniture, and the bed coverings.

“I didn’t know what color you’d like, so I kept it like this but this weekend we’ll go shopping and you can pick out some decorations and some school supplies, if you want.” You nodded, heading farther into the room, your room, to set your suitcases on the bed.

“That would be nice, Shane. Thank you.”

“Oh,” It was his turn to blink at you, startled, “You don’t, I mean, you don’t have to thank me. I can’t make you stay in here. I would never.” He pressed a hand to his chest dramatically and it made you crack a smile, snorting as you wrapped your arms around yourself. “I’m going to order in some food later if there’s anything you want, you can just tell me. You have an ensuite bathroom - I won’t bother anything in that and I’ll give you money to go shopping for toiletries - but I’ll give you a few hours to unpack and,” He waved his hands noncommittally, “If you need anything I’ll be right downstairs and you can give me a shout.”

“Yeah, thank you.” Shane waved you off and closed the door, leaving it cracked for you to choose whether or not you wanted it open.

After his footsteps faded you quickly crossed the room to shut the door, glad to see that the inside lock was still intact, unlike some of the other homes that you had been in. It was warm, warmer than Washington state, so you shed your jacket and hoodie for a tank top, tossing the articles of clothing on the bed. Toeing off your shoes you headed toward the bathroom, to check out the ensuite Shane had mentioned. It was large, spacious, and echoed when you sighed. It was nicer than some of the bedrooms you had stayed in previously, and you wondered how active Shane was on Youtube to garner this large of a house.

You’d watch some of his videos later, on your phone, once you had the wifi password. Instead of lingering on your new host family, you’d unpack. You’d make the beige ocean feel a little more like home, a little more like the house that was fuzzy in your memories. The suitcase latches echoed in the quiet, the lid _fwumping!_ against the bedspread, and you were greeted with the smiling faces of your parents, framed in the only picture that survived the fire that killed them.

It still had scorch marks curling up the sides of the ornate, wooden frame, and you touched them reverently, before turning to put the picture on the bed side table. Next was the second thing to survive the fire, besides you, a small, wooden pair of otters holding hands, as if they were in water, to keep from floating away from each other.

A man had seen your parents on their honeymoon and gifted it to them, free of cost. You were surprised it had survived because it had been on their dresser: next to the oil diffuser that caused the fire.

They went in front of your parents, to remind you that they truly were in love. And that they loved you. They would always love you.

With only three things that survived the fire, you had collected your other knick knacks from various foster homes, or swiped them from stores when you had slipped out of the system, briefly, in your freshman year.

A dragon statue, meant for burning incense, to remind you of the jolly old man that was your first foster father.

A painting of a rose, to remind you of the delicate blonde woman with roses tattoed up her arm, from her wrist, who fostered you for three years, before a drunk driver took the right side of her brain, and her functionality.

A picture, taken at Niagara Falls, with your favorite foster mother. Both of you were sopping wet, the blue and yellow raincoats sticking to your skin, but she had a tight grip around your shoulders and you were both grinning, holding up peace signs. Her name was Nelle, and she loved you like she birthed you, but she had succumbed to the cancer only a month after that picture was taken.

You hadn’t even known that she had cancer.

Finally, a flag made in Britain, to represent the only caseworker to ever actually care about you.

These four things represented you, your story, your history, and you lined them up chronologically on the dressed that sat pushed up against the foot of your bed, so you’d see them every morning when you woke up.

Then you put your suitcases full of clothing under the bed, so that if things went south you wouldn’t have to stay in the house longer than waiting on Alicia to get you. With nothing left to do you finally plopped down on the bed, to find it comfortable and, well, perfect. It had to be… Very expensive. You laid back, eyes on the stucco ceiling, and let out a breath you didn’t know you had been holding.

You didn’t know why, but you had a good feeling about this foster home. Maybe it was the way Shane seemed so nervous, or the way you had accidentally shut a cat in the room, but instead of attacking you it curled up on your stomach, or maybe it was the post-mate pulling in, from - somehow - your favorite restaurant.

* * *

Perhaps your good feeling was placebo. Two weeks later, when you were finally comfortable enough to unpack your clothes, you woke up earlier than usual on a Saturday. Shane was taking you out today, mostly to buy you a school uniform, but you knew he wanted to get home and film something with Garrett and Drew. (Both who had made you laugh so hard you shot milk from your nose the first time you had met them.)

Barefooted you crept down the stairs, quiet as a habit, when you heard Ryland talking. He and Shane must have been in the kitchen, bleary eyed and hunched over coffee or something of the likes, and if you could have guess Uno would be at their feet.

You pressed your back against the wall, closing your eyes so that you could hear what was being said. Normally, you weren’t as sneaky, curious, but Ryland had said your name, and that was weird. He’d barely look at you, but he was talking in hushed tones to his boyfriend about you?

_-and, Shane, I just don’t get it. Why you’d bring a child into this house, when all we’ve been doing is fighting? Fighting about children, specifically. It’s not fair to use this kid as some sort of fucked up proof you’re good enough to be a father._

_Ryland, you knew about this. You were here when they came to inspect the house!_

_I didn’t think you’d go through with it! This isn’t some stunt for a video, this is a real human’s life you’re fucking with. It’s not fair to the kid, not fair to us. What would happen if I decided day three that I wanted to have a kid with you, and all fighting was over. Would you call that social worker? Have ‘em come collect the kid?_

_Of course not -_

_-Then why? What do you get out of fostering a child? You can’t adopt a kid so close to eighteen, or at least it would be pointless to, so what’s the point?_

_The point is that I care about the kid! It’s been hard, of course it has. There’s some sort of damage, some fear there. Just like when you met me. But I’m not sending this child back to a shitty system that’s obviously fucked them up. When the going gets tough, you don’t fucking send a teenager back to a system we both know that doesn’t work._

Shane kept talking, but that’s all you needed to hear before you were tiptoeing back up the stairs, to your room. It was decked out in your favorite color - the bedspread and a circular carpet on the ground - and Shane had even purchased artwork by your favorite artist and gotten a poster signed by your favorite band. He’d gone over the top and, as you looked at it with your back to your door, all you felt was guilt.

Guilt that you had even entered Shane’s life, guilt that Ryland felt that way, guilt, guilt, guilt. You were a parasite, worming your way between a happy relationship. Guilt, guilt, guilt, guilt, it ate at you until your chest was heaving, your eyes were brimming with tears, and you were shaking.

A yell, a slam, and then you could see Ryland storming off, out to his car, through your window.

_Guilt, guilt, guilt._

The house was silent, creaking, and Cheeto was peering at you from under your bed, silently judging you, and you made your decision. Bare feet on the hardwood were a blessing, nothing giving away your hurried movements to dig around in the covers for your phone.

Clutched in your hand you dialed the only number out of the three that were in there, the only one you had memorized. “Alicia,” You gasped softly into her voicemail, “Alicia, please, you have to come get me. Please, please come get me.” You’d hurt them before they hurt you, escaping with Alicia before they could call her and have her come get you. Shane would get over it, and Ryland would be happy.

Your clothes were packed hastily, sneaking some of the new ones Shane had bought you, and then you were slowing down, slow motion packing your memories, including the new one: a simple black frame with a picture of you and Shane, heads tossed back laughing. Garrett had taken it and printed it out for you. Shade had given you the frame, engraving it with the date, time, and place where the photo was taken.

You’d take it with you, purely because you had thought Shane would be your last stop, but you couldn’t break up another relationship, not after the last one. He’d left her, and for the four days you were in the house she looked at you… She looked at you like it was your fault. Her scowl was always heavy, her clothes always wrinkled, her eyes always red rimmed and you were… You were a kid, but you knew what the look meant. That look meant that it was your fault, and that look meant you were getting sent back, meant you’d change hands, and even without seeing Shane, you could see the look on his face.

Except, when he pushed into your room, looking pale and scared, that look wasn’t on his face. He looked sad, softly broken, and you froze, bent to pull your shoes on. He had his phone clenched in his hand and he raised it when you finally made eye contact with him. “You’re leaving? You called Alicia to get you?”

“I can’t do this again,” You said cryptically, “I can’t, I won’t… I won’t be send back.”

“We aren’t sending you back!” Shane approached, shoes tapping on the floor that was warmed by the sun bleeding through your window, “What made you think that?”

“Even if you aren’t sending me back, I won’t let me break up your relationship, Shane.” He looked confused, pressing a hand to his forehead, “Some stupid fuckin’ kid shouldn’t be the reason you break up with Ryland, or the reason that Ryland breaks up with you. I’m not worth it, and I won’t ever be. It’s better if I leave - I heard you guys talking today and Ryland… He doesn’t even fuckin’ want me here!”

Shane opened his mouth to speak but you held up your hand, “No! You don’t understand! The system is shitty, and I’m almost out of it! Ryland said it best: you’re not going to adopt a kid that’s sixteen years old because it’s fucking pointless, Shane. I’m fucking pointless!”

Your voice broke and the dam on your eyes did, too, your body crumbling weakly against the dresser behind you. You repeated your sentiment, trying to convince either Shane or yourself that you weren’t worth it. SHane set his phone down and locked his jaw, pointedly avoiding your teary gaze. “I’m not worth it.”

“I told Alicia not to come get you. I’ll call if you really, really want to leave. Not until you can convince me that you’re not happy here, and if you really, truly believe that I’m not happy with you here, than you’re wrong. I was so scared about being a father before I started fostering you, and now I’m not. You’ve shown me that no matter how scared I am, my kids will be more scared, and that’s it’s my job to quell that fear. It’s my job, as a father, to make sure that you, and whatever other kids I adopt or foster or have, that it’s okay. You’re not gross, weird, or not worth it. You are worth it. You are so, so worth it, you don’t even understand. I’ve read your case file, I’ve tried to imagine what you went through but I can’t. I’ve stayed up and cried while you slept because if I can’t understand what you’re going through and what you’ve went through, how am I supposed to make you feel okay, how am I supposed to make you feel like you belong in this house?” Shane was crying, himself, and the air in the room was heavy. You were crying, trying to avoid look at your foster father’s tear-streaked, red, blotchy face. You knew your resolve would crumble as soon as you did.

Lip wobbling, you spoke, “I’m really not worth it. You’ll understand, you’ll see. I can’t do anything right, I can’t… I’m a bad luck charm, I’m a menace, I don’t deserve this house, or this wardrobe, or anything that you give me. You don’t understand!”

Shane, for the first time in the weeks you’d been staying with him, yelled at you.

“I do understand! I understand what it’s like to look in the mirror and hate what you see! I know what it’s like to think everyone around you is just playing a game, pretending until they find the reason or the time to drop you, or hurt you. You don’t think I know this? I’m not going to pretend like I know what you’re going through, but I can’t help you if you won’t let me! You are worth it! You are worth it! I will tell you everyday until you fucking believe me, because you’re fucking worth it! Just because a line of shitty people told you that you weren’t doesn’t mean it’s true!”

Your lip wobbled, if possible, more, and finally you collapsed. You lost yourself inside yourself, arms wrapped around your knees, as you full on ugly-cried, wailing as Shane scrambled across your room. He heaved you up by your underarms, pulling you to his chest. Whether it was instinctual or not, you weren’t sure, but you clung to him, crying into his shoulder. Shane sunk to the bed and, even though he was crying, too, he shushed you and rubbed your back until your crying subsided into soft hiccups. Shane’s voice vibrated against the side of your face as he spoke.

“Do you want to stay? I’m not going to make you. It’s your decision, but if you stay we’ll talk to Ryland, together. If you want to leave, you can leave. I’ll call Alicia.” You shook your head and clung tighter to Shane, his voice telling you that you matter on repeat in your head.

“I want to stay,” You muttered, “I want to stay.”

And for the first time in your life, you meant it.

You wanted to stay.

And Shane wanted you to stay.


	2. I Want To Hate You (Half As Much As I Hate Myself)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> requested by anon: hiya owl!! loved ur shane fic, if possible could you write a sequel dealing w/ an eating disorder? (if ur not comfortable w this just a continuation will be just fine as well!) thanks xxx 
> 
> requested by the_annoying_fangirl on ao3: Hey this is the_annoying_fangirl from Archive! You did a Dan imagine where the girl finds out she was broken up with because she was overweight. I was wondering if you can do one kind of like that with Shane and his daughter (adopted daughter/bio daughter/etc it doesn't really matter) with some fluff and caring and whatever? Thanks! 
> 
> jfc i spent three days on this just planning lmaoooo - e
> 
> word count: 1.4K
> 
> warnings: cyberbullying, mention of weight issues, body dysmorphia, past traumas, body gore (implied and imaginary)

**[masterlist](https://nightowlwriting.tumblr.com/masterlist/)\- [request ](https://nightowltwriting.tumblr.com/ask/)\- [support my work?](https://ko-fi.com/nightowleli)**

* * *

 

It all starts innocently enough, like everything tremendous and traumatic does.

You’re seen once, possibly twice, in one of Shane’s ghost videos, and the internet takes off with it. Luckily, you keep your head down.

Nobody knows who you are, or where you came from.

Nobody, except Deacon.

He’s your ex in all senses of the word.

Ex-foster brother, ex-boyfriend, ex-ruiner-of-lives.

He is also an avid Shane Dawson fan.

When your phone starts pinging, your Twitter screaming, it starts slow. One or two people sending you a picture of yourself, off camera, laughing with Morgan and Drew. It springs anxiety on you, but Shane is quick to quell it.

Ryland takes you to his office, leaving your phone in the living room, and he let’s you help him with ideas for a video.

“You could do a baking show type thing?”  
  
“Mhm?”  
  


“Like, follow a Sugar Rush episode or something, that would be fun!”

“I think you just want sugar.”  
  
“True.”  
  
And that’s when Garrett comes into the room, headfirst and then the rest of his lanky body. “Hey, your phone has been ringing off of the hook. Some dude named Deacon?” And, of course, this was before you knew what he had done, so you leapt up and snatched the phone from Garrett's hands.

“Deacon?” You’re quick to leave Ryland behind, but you don’t even make it to your room before his voice stops you dead in your tracks, something like memories or flashbacks rooting you to the spot in the living room, surrounded by the ‘squad’ who are all giving you varying looks of concern.

“Hey!” He lets the word hang through the air before he speaks again, “Hey, sorry about what happened.”

“What happened?”

“Yeah, I saw you in that video and everyone was like ahhh! who’s that! And, well, I have like, three thousand subs now and you’ve got like, fourteen thousand Twitter followers.”

And your breath catches in your throat because, damnit, Deacon’s done it again.

He’s ruined something good.

“That was you? The reason they’re finding me?”  
  
“What, are you hiding? You’re looking really fit now, why would you hide that body?”

“It’s not about that, Deacon!”

Your voice breaks and Shane and Co. whip around like they’ve been stung by a bee, except it’s just being stung by the distress in your voice and the way you collapse on to your knees dramatically.

“I mean, jeez, when you were fostered into my house you were a mess-”

“Deacon, why did you do this?”  
  
“How big were you then?”  
  
“Deacon…”

“You’ve lost some weight, well, could use to lose a little bit more…”  
  
He talks like he doesn’t hear you wheezing on the other side, and finally, you break. You snap, and it’s like your mind actually snaps in half. Your vision goes blue and red and overlapping like bad 3D glasses, and your skin feels like it’s crawling off of your body, leaving your milk-white skeleton open and exposed. When Ryland lays a hand on your shoulder it burns through your whole body and you find yourself screaming down the phone.

“Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you, Deacon! I don’t ever want to hear from you again and if I ever see you, I’ll fucking kill you!” And you’re yelling about how weight doesn't matter, about how you’re not fat, about everything and anything Deacon has done to you until you’re just a skeleton with vibrating vocal chords melting into the carpet of the house you’ve come to call home and you don’t even realize that you're on your feet until you’re whirling around, pushing Ryland away.

You spin, again, world a mess of blurry people and blurry decorations, and blurry animals watching you carefully and then you’re blurry, throwing your phone so hard it shatters against the kitchen window.

And then you’re screaming - or, maybe you’re crying? And your skin is back, and you’re no longer a skeleton, and Shane is there - everyone knows you won’t push him away - and he’s pulling you into his arms except there’s no room.

Suddenly you’re swelling, skin stretching and cracking and turning purple with effort. Shane’s arms are stretching with the effort of holding you and any second you’re sure he’s going to push you away and, in a ridiculous posh voice, address you.

“Violet, you’re turning violet!”

Except he doesn’t. Because you know, somewhere, that you’re not swelling, you’re not breaking like someone’s taken a seam ripper to all the places you’re held together, and Shane’s not mocking you or making fun of you.

He’s shushing you, rocking you as you sob broken and erratically. He’s holding you together, keeping you whole as you begin to string apart, falling like putty through his fingers. Or, at least, that’s what it feels like. You know you’re whole, you know there’s nothing wrong.

Well, except everything. Everything’s wrong.

Everything’s wrong…

You think you faint, but you’re not sure.

* * *

 

When you wake up in your bed, you’re convinced that it was all a dream. Everything is silent around you, and Cheeto is resting underneath your arm as you lay on your side, looking at all of your trinkets.

But then you hear the commotion downstairs and it all comes crashing back to you. Someone is baking, you can smell the sticky, sugary sweet scent of it from your room and it makes your stomach curl uncomfortably in on itself.

But, you think, swinging your legs out of bed, you have prevailed for seventeen years, and you will continue to prevail. You change, albeit into a long shirt and baggy basketball shorts, and head downstairs to a horror show.

Ryland looks, well, very gay in his apron and chef hat. The apron, you note with a snort, says suck my dick! And you know that SHane has bought it for him.

Ryland, when he sees you, shouts your name, brandishing a whisk and a spatula like swords, “I took your idea and the video’s going to be great!” You feel your spirits being lifted up, especially when see the atrocities that Ryland has made.

The whole gang is sitting around enjoying them in the after-shoot, even Andrew is reclined in the living room eating what looks like it’s supposed to be a piece of pizza… But made out of a chocolate chip cookie.

“Do you want some?”

Your hand reaches out to take whatever Morgan's handing you, but when your fingertip makes contact it’s like you’ve taken ipecac and it’s seconds before go-time. You retract your hand, smiling and shaking your head. “Nah, it’s not good for sugar this early in the morning.”

And in all the time they’ve known you, which is about a year, you’ve never rejected sweets. Shane knows this, looking at you from where he’s feeding Uno. You walked into his house with a sucker in your mouth, for Christ’s sake.

It’s embarrassing for him to pull you aside in front of everyone, but you’re sure when you look back on it, you’ll thank him.

Anyway.

He pulls you to another room, hands on your shoulder, as he bends his neck to be eye-to-eye with you. He’s serious, something you don’t get to see from Shane a lot.

“Don’t do this.”  
  
“Don’t do what?”  
  
“Well, first of all, play dumb. And don’t do this to yourself. I’ve been down that road.”

“Shane…”

He doesn't give you time to defend yourself, “We have to talk about last night. About what you said, about anything that whoever was on the phone might have said. We also have to talk about what we’re going to do now that everyone knows you’re living with me.”

You lip wobbles like your kneecaps, and the anxiety builds up like lava in your chest once more.   “But what if they say…”

“They won’t say anything.”

“Shane, you don’t know that!” You can’t tell me what they will or will not say!” Your voice shrieks even though you’re trying to keep it hushed.

“Except that I can. I want you to know that you’re safe here. I will protect you, no matter what. You are…” Shane’s choked up as he continues speaking, “You are my child, no matter what. And I will protect you, but it’s time. It’s time to let everyone know.”


End file.
